Up for Ransom
by Catiekay
Summary: After losing his childhood friend Alfred to a devastating house fire, Arthur Kirkland learns to live a rather dull life in the West. He longs for more than herding cattle and reaping fields, and his prayers are answered in a most unexpected way. When a dangerous outlaw, wanted for months, manages to take him hostage, his true identity was what Arthur least expected. (USUK)
1. Prologue

A USUK Fanfiction

**Bozeman, Montana: 1867 **

"_Arthur!" a desperate voice called to him. Hands grabbed his arms and gently shook him. "Arthur, dear, please wake up!" It sounded far away, like he was listening through a wall. Forcing his heavy eyelids open, Arthur rolled onto his back to find his mother standing over him. _

_Right away, Arthur could tell something was wrong. His bedroom was unusually dark and a foul aroma permeated his room. A thin layer of what seemed like dust covered everything. But his jumbled, drowsy mind stopped him from piecing anything together. Blinking did nothing to clear his thoughts. _

"_Come now, love, this is urgent! We haven't much time," his mother pleaded. Arthur frowned at his mother, trying to make sense of her words through his sleepy haze. What could possibly be so important at this hour? _

_Now losing patience, Arthur's mother threw the blankets off the ten-year-old boy and swiftly lifted him from his bed, eliciting a yelp from the child. She darted out of the room and into the hallway. "Mum?" Arthur asked in surprise, his sleepiness wearing away. He looked back into his room and finally realized why it was so dark: the moonlight was not shining through his window._

_The stairwell and hallway were filled with smoke, causing him to cough. Gazing over his mum's shoulder, he saw something terribly unexpected. Flames darted out of the door leading to their kitchen as Arthur's mother ran past. It was ablaze. Servants and neighbors ran frantically to and fro with buckets containing water, throwing it onto the flames. The howling and crying he heard within were almost louder than the crackling of the fire. He hardly had time gasp before his mother had dashed through the front door and set him down outside, where it seemed the whole town was gathered. _

"_Honey, I need you to wait here 'til Papa comes, alright?" Arthur's mother said breathlessly, kissing his forehead. Arthur was wide awake now, flustered, stunned, and confused. _

"_But Mum—!" He grappled for the hem of her nightgown as she rushed towards the house once more. "No, come back!" he cried. He watched helplessly as his mother disappeared through their wooden doors into their wooden house, towards the smoke pouring out the side windows. _

_What if Mum never comes out again, he thought in despair? What if she gets hurt? Where are Papa and Peter? Is their house going to burn down? Arthur sat back and began to cry as people carrying water buckets ran past him. _

_However, only a few of them went into his family's house. The rest went next door to his dear friend Alfred's house. Why were they going there? He could not see anything through the crowd of tall adults except for a red glow filling the sky. Everyone was screaming and yelling and some were crying. People constantly ran into him as they raced by, throwing him around on the dirt road. It all frightened Arthur, who was alone in the street. _

_Just then, his mother burst through the front doors of their home carrying small, vulnerable Peter, closely followed by his father. Never had Arthur experienced such relief, and he ran to them the moment they were off the porch._

_Arthur's father knelt down and scooped him into a tight hug. Within his arms, Arthur felt safe, almost as if the commotion around him had disappeared. _

"_Wipe away those tears, young man," he soothed, running his callused fingers through his son's hair, paying no heed to the tears seeping into his shirt. "We are going to be just fine." Sobbing into his shoulder, Arthur gripped the fabric of his father's nightshirt._

_After giving Arthur a quick peck on the cheek and setting him down, his father yelled to his family, "Wait here!" He raced towards the men who were carrying water buckets and grabbed one of his own. The throng of people soon swallowed him up, leaving Arthur, his baby brother Peter, and his mother to fend for themselves. All of the security he felt moments ago completely vanished and reality came crashing down twice as hard. _

_Arthur tried to run after him, only to be cut short by his mother. "Come now, darling," she pleaded, "We have to be as far away as possible!" Holding him by the wrist, she tugged Arthur away from the red glow that was growing larger by the second. _

"_But Papa's all alone! We need to help him!" With that, Arthur ripped his hand from his mum's grasp and fled towards the confused horde and ominous glow in the sky. He paid no mind to his mother's shouting behind him. _

_Pushing through the warm bodies was harder than Arthur thought. Tripping and sliding along the sandy road, he smashed into several hips and elbows. He never seemed to get any closer to the red glow, but the air grew hotter and smokier with every step, making his eyes water. _

_Out of nowhere, Arthur's bare foot caught on someone's shoe, sending him tumbling to the ground. The impact knocked the breath out of his lungs as he crashed landed. After skidding several feet on his face and hands, he came to halt. For a moment, he struggled to move, for the pain was almost unbearable to his young body. Thankfully, several adults came to his aid, both dusting him off and scolding him for coming so close to the fire. _

Fire, _Arthur thought?_ But we're not by my house.

_What Arthur saw next was something he had never expected to see. Eyes widening and jaw dropping, he looked up at his friend Alfred's house… which was engulfed in a roaring inferno. The flames seemed to touch the sky they were so tall. Fire seeped out all the broken windows and up the walls, showering sparks over everything near it. The whole building was blackened with soot and smoke. _

_He stumbled backwards several steps from both the shock of seeing such a sight and the intense heat, covering his face with his arm. Arthur frantically looked around for Alfred and his family. Were they safe, or were they still inside?_

"_Hey kid, move it!" someone shouted, pushing Arthur aside with his water-filled bucket as he ran by. _

"_Wait!" Arthur cried to the man, grabbing his sleeve. "Where's Alfred? Where is his family?" Fresh tears pricked the backs of his eyes. _

"_They're trapped inside and we're tryin' to get 'em out!" the man yelled in reply, yanking his arm out of the boy's grip and running towards the fire. Arthur suddenly felt sick. There was no way they could escape if the fire had already consumed that much of the house. _This must be a dream_, he told himself desperately_. A terrible, terrible dream.

_All of the men were trying to extinguish the fire, but to no avail. Mere buckets were not going to do anything. Several men came staggering out of the house, hacking smoke out of their lungs, but none of them was a member of the Jones family. No one dared going into the house now, even though Alfred and his mum and papa were still shut in. Arthur watched in despair as each man, one by one, gave up the rescue mission. They all stood dejectedly watching the house burn. _

_Without thinking, Arthur ran towards the blazing structure. There was no way he would leave his best friend to die. _

"_Alfred!" he screamed, "Alfred, can you hear me?" Jumping over flaming shards of wood, he leapt onto the porch. The wood scalded his feet as he pounded on the front door, causing sparks to fly. "Please come out!" he begged. _

_Before he could reach for the door knob, however, a pair of strong arms seized his waist and dragged him away from the flaming house. Arthur coughed violently and his eyes watered profusely. _

"_What the hell were you doing?" his father yelled at him once they were at a safe distance. "Do you want to be killed?"_

"_Let me go!" Arthur shrieked, kicking and thrashing. Tears streamed down his bleeding cheeks as he clawed at his father's arms. "Let me go!" Why was no one trying to save them anymore? Why was everyone leaving them to die? _

"_There's nothing we can do! The fire is too great," Arthur's father shouted over the roaring of the flames and the mass of people, his voice breaking. He struggled to keep Arthur from escaping his hold. "If we sent anyone else in to retrieve them, they'd die within minutes!"_

_Arthur only writhed and lashed out stronger. "Please!" he sobbed. "We can't leave them inside!" _

_A loud _crack!_ sounded from the house suddenly, causing the whole town to come to a stop. Every head turned to look at the building and a deafening silence settled over the crowds._

_One by one, vast panels of wood began to fall off, shattering on the ground. The wood splintered noisily, people flinching with each sound. Arthur did not understand why everyone looked so panicked all of a sudden. How could things possibly be worse? It was just a few wooden boards. _

_Then everyone started to run. "Look out!" someone bellowed. Before he knew what was happening, his father threw himself over Arthur. _

_An earsplitting crash filled the air, closely followed by flaming debris flying overhead. The ground shuddered. Looking beneath his papa's arm, Arthur watched in horror as Alfred's house caved in on itself, the roof breaking apart and taking everything below with it. He shut his eyes tight as everything came crashing down with a thunderous, flaming explosion. _

_After a few moments, everything was horribly silent. Arthur's heart was in his throat as his father slowly sat up. Several wooden shards fell from his hair as he moved. Shaking from adrenaline, Arthur stood, gaping at what was left of the house. He took one step towards the smoking rubble, hardly believing what he saw. _

_Arthur found himself staggering towards the smoldering wreckage, blinded by his tears. _No, no, no_, he repeated to himself._ _He fell to his knees at the edge of the remains, and began frantically digging through the broken wood, ignoring the splinters and the searing temperature of the shards. Alfred was still there, he was sure of it. He just needed to look, is all. They would come popping out of the wood at any moment and everything would be fine. It had to be. _

_Another loud crash came from the former house as the remaining framework broke apart, throwing Arthur onto his back. He felt the hair on his arms singing from the heat, but that did not deter him. He needed to help his best friend; otherwise he'd be trapped forever._

_Before he could sit up properly, Arthur felt someone take his arms and haul him away once more. He struggled against his captor, but with much less vigor. Exhaustion finally took its toll on the child. Quickly losing energy, Arthur gave up and let his father lift his limp body into his arms to bring him back to the weeping crowd. He could not bring himself to look at the rubble he left behind, abandoning his one friend for good. Instead, he burrowed his face into his father's shirt, his small shoulders shaking with sobs. _

_Flakes of ashes floated downwards, settling on every open surface. His eyelids heavy, Arthur watched several small flecks land on the back of his hand. Before long, he could no longer keep his eyes open, and the boy succumbed to restless, weary sleep. _

_One by one, the townspeople stood and walked dejectedly towards their homes, Arthur's family included. And while everyone's back was turned, the smoke cleared just enough to let the moonlight shine through once more. _


	2. Chapter 1

**Deer Lodge, Montana: 1876**

Arthur coughed as he downed another shot of whiskey, wiping his mouth. Feeling it burn all the way down his throat, he leaned forward, putting his head on his forearms. He groaned when someone slapped his back.

"Arthur, _cher_," his cousin Francis called merrily, "that's only your third shot!"

With a nasty scowl, he whipped his head around to stare at Francis right in eye.

"You're one to talk." He sat up from the bar, trying to sit upright on the bar stool. Everything was beginning to look fuzzy and the floorboards wobbled beneath his dangling feet. His witty comeback disappeared into the depths of his jumbled thoughts.

With a smile, Francis gestured to the other people in the saloon. "Oh, I was only teasing. Besides, today is a day of celebration and you should be happy."

All around them, people were chatting and drinking enthusiastically. The wooden flooring creaked beneath people's feet as they danced in time with the pianist playing in the far corner. Glasses clanked together loudly following brazen proclamations of _Cheers!_ and bartenders hurriedly filled glasses from demanding drinkers. Laughter filled the air, and Arthur sat back to observe the general cheerfulness taking place.

He shielded his eyes from the evening sun shining through the windows, leaning against the bar's counter. People from all over the state had come to Deer Lodge with their cattle, hoping to set them onto the railroads and get paid. With their newly earned money, the ranchers and cattle drivers celebrated their victorious journeys with alcohol, dancing, singing, and some other questionable activities. The weeks following the cattle drives were always wild, but Arthur and his family had learned to cope, and even enjoy them. Eventually, everyone would head towards their hometowns and Deer Lodge would settle back down into normal routines.

Arthur frowned, taking a hold of the counter when he felt himself swaying off his stool. He sighed when he watched some of his whiskey spill onto the floor. "I suppose you're right. Maybe I'll even go dance with someone if I can stay on two legs for more than a few seconds."

"Like Amelia?" Francis hinted, cocking an eyebrow.

Groaning inwardly, Arthur rubbed his temple with his free hand. "Like anyone who isn't Amelia."

Across the room, a lady with curly, light brown hair and sparkling blue eyes spoke excitedly with her friends, occasionally sneaking a few glances at Arthur. She spun around so that her new dress would flutter outwards. Anyone could see how lively and bright she was, and more than a few men had already proposed to her, despite her young age. However, for reasons unknown to Arthur, she had turned them down in hopes that he would ask her.

"You know, everyone thinks you two are going to be married. That poor girl, she is madly in love with a _bougon_."

"Shut up." He was not going to take being called a "grump" today. Arthur waved his hand around his face to disperse the tobacco fumes filling the air. There were numerous people smoking cigars, and he was not in the mood for one himself. When his blurry eyesight focused, he found Amelia looking directly at him, giving him a coy wave. With a forced smile, he returned the wave and swiveled around to face the bar again. He did not want to think about how his father was going to force him to propose to Amelia next week; he did not want to think about the rest of his life being devoted to one woman; he did not want to think about people telling him how much happier he would be with a wife. As lovely as she was, Arthur was not interested.

Instead, Arthur slid off his bar stool and stumbled towards the doors leading out, holding his head high and trying to avoid eye contact. No one had to know just how few shots it took to intoxicate him.

As he pushed the swinging doors open, he heard Francis call after him, probably asking where he was going, but Arthur was too drunk to care. He needed some time away from the hectic cattle drivers and lovesick girls. Pulling his jacket closer around his body, his leather boots crunching over the frosted ground, Arthur headed towards home, sweet home.

* * *

Arthur flexed his frigid fingers, hoping to warm them up. Although the sun was bright, the air nipped at his nose and ears and the switch grass in the field around him was stiff with ice. With gentle but firm strokes, he brushed the coat of his horse, Miro. However, he decided to hasten his pace since he had started to shiver a few minutes ago. How horses could stand such extreme temperatures, he would never know. And it would only get colder from here.

Even from a mile away standing on top of a small hill, Arthur could hear the festivities. He could barely make out the townsfolk's figures in the distance, who seemed like wandering ants from the field by his home. He scowled, securing the bridle around Miro's head. Not even on his own property could he have peace and quiet to sooth his headache. Maybe next time he wouldn't get drunk.

He felt something warm brush his shoulder, and turned to find Miro nuzzling him. Smiling, Arthur returned the affection and patted her long nose. Miro was a sturdy horse and still fit in her old age. Like most mustangs, she had a gleaming russet coat, a black mane and tail, and a rather prominent independent streak. Now, she was calmer and much gentler. Arthur remembered when he first met Miro as a spirited foal ten years ago. She had been a birthday gift to Alfred from family friends, and Arthur couldn't have been more jealous. However, Alfred was more than happy to share, and much of their time afterwards was spent taking care of her. She had been the only living thing to survive that dreaded fire and taking ownership of her had proved quite a fight; a young horse was invaluable in these parts.

_Alfred would have turned seventeen this year_, Arthur thought, taking a brush and combing out the knots in Miro's mane. _Funny how fast time can pass. _For several years after the fire, the town of Bozeman would still celebrate Alfred's birthday alongside Independence Day as if he was still alive, including everything a child like him would have loved. It was painful at first, but over time, Arthur came to love the parties. Even after they moved away to Deer Lodge, Arthur's family would commemorate the Jones' with a nice dinner.

The funeral, nine years ago that day, was the largest event the town had seen since the Trail opened up, with everyone within twenty miles coming. The Jones' were well known for their hospitality and they had numerous close friends, including Arthur's family. It was no surprise that the mayor from as far away as Helena had attended.

One of the saddest parts of the funeral was the three coffins at the ceremony, but only two of them contained bodies. Poor Mr. and Mrs. Jones had been found together in a terrible state, but Alfred had never been recovered from the rubble. After two days, everyone gave up looking and left the Kirkland family to arrange the service.

Alfred and Arthur had been great friends. When Arthur's family moved to the West from England when he was eight years old, Alfred had been one of the only children around his age in the town. When the daily chores were done, they would get together and play with dominoes, draughts, or anything else that could hold their interest for a few hours, and the two quickly became friends. However, Arthur never told anyone that after a few years, he realized his feelings were more than friendship. Not even Francis knew, and to this day, he kept it to himself. He's seen a few people since who have caught his interest, but not the way Alfred had.

Arthur shook his head, trying to scatter memories. He grabbed his slouch hat sitting on the barbed wire fence surrounding his property, put it on, and pulled his leather jacket closer around himself.

Taking the reins, Arthur led Miro out from the shade of the frost-covered pine trees over to where he had set out the rest of his riding gear. Although sunset was still a few hours off, the sky was tinted yellow around the western horizon and the air felt thin and fresh. The rays of sunshine provided little reprieve for his frozen cheeks, but Miro seemed to be relieved. Once the saddle blanket was set in place and the saddle itself was fastened, Arthur pulled himself on top of the horse. A leisurely ride would surely clear his head, and upon coming home, he would have a lovely supper to look forward to.

* * *

Miro's hooves thumped softly against the dusty horse trail with each step she took, creating a rhythm that made Arthur feel drowsy. He patted his cheeks and furiously blinked to keep himself awake. Who knew where a horse could end up with a sleeping rider?

Daylight seeped between the lodgepole pines around the path and made spotted patterns across the ground. The patches where the sun had not touched were covered in ice, and Arthur cautiously guided Miro around them. Although they had ridden these trails hundreds of times, winter's cold weather had made them tricky to traverse, and Miro's old age did not help. The steep climb usually was no problem for her, but with frozen spots dotting the earth, Arthur decided that he would take easier trails until spring truly arrived.

The two had been riding for a little more than an hour, and Arthur was aiming for a beautiful view point over the valley in which Deer Lodge was set. There, he could relax for a few minutes before having to return to his daily life.

_My life is so dull_, Arthur thought, rubbing Miro's neck, _All I ever do is collect eggs in the morning and then listen to Francis complain for the rest of the day_. He rubbed a hand through his hair with a grimace. Along with that, he soon had to marry an overbearing and fussy girl, which meant he would have to choose somewhere to live and stay there. He could not handle that; he needed freedom. Even if it meant manning a farm alone, Arthur wanted to reject Amelia.

Pulling back on the reins, Arthur brought Miro to a halt and slid off the saddle to stretch his legs. There was still a ways to go before they reached their destination, but Miro was breathing hard and his stomach was grumbling. All he could hear was the wind in the trees, and a few birds chirping in the distance; he hadn't experienced peace like this in weeks. Maybe a quiet snack and a short nap in the grass would do his mind some justice.

The silence was short-lived, however.

Arthur jumped out of his skin when a gunshot rang out. The dirt about ten feet away from him exploded. Miro reared back and stumbled backwards. He instinctively grabbed for the revolver in his gun belt and outstretched his arms, aiming at nothing. Hardly anyone rode these paths this time of year; he was supposed to be alone. Whirling around, he tried to pinpoint the source of the shot, but the wind had blown the echoes away.

His heart rate accelerated so quickly he thought his ribcage would break. He only had three rounds of bullets with him and he was miles away from town. There was no way he was going to take out someone he could not see. Staggering towards a frightened Miro, Arthur reached for the horn of the saddle to get on and ride away as fast as possible.

Another shot sounded and searing pain tore through his right shoulder. Arthur screamed, and the sheer force of the bullet sent him flying. He hit the ground hard and tumbled several feet down the steep, rocky trail. The sting in his shoulder blinded him to everything. The revolver flew out of his hand and toppled off a cliff beside the trail; there was no way to retrieve it. Skidding to a halt, covered in ice and dirt, Arthur writhed in agony, clenching his shoulder.

Attempting to regulate his breathing, Arthur struggled to push himself off the ground and stand up, but collapsed. His arm slowly became numb and he could not see through the blazing pain. He could feel the bullet lodged in his shoulder, and warm blood trickled between his straining fingers.

Before he could make any more progress in standing, footsteps pounded towards him and a huge weight crushed his body, pinning his legs to the ground. A figure blocked the sun. Someone was sitting on him. Feebly, Arthur fought back against his assailant, whose face was obscured by a bandana. With his good arm, Arthur swung at the stranger and struck his cheekbone. The person grunted, but came back with a punch stronger than anything Arthur had ever felt. Arthur's head twisted sideways, something in his nose popping.

Then, the attacker brought out his rifle, and all the blood drained from Arthur's face. _This is it_, he thought through the pain. _I am going to die in the middle of nowhere_.

The last thing he saw was the butt of the rifle coming at his head.


	3. Chapter 2

It was dark. And uncomfortably warm.

Arthur could feel himself floating on the edge of consciousness, but he couldn't wake himself fully. He felt sore and numb everywhere at the same time, and for a moment thought that his body had disappeared. Birds chirped somewhere nearby, but the sound was muffled, like he was wearing the ear protection muffs his mother always forced on him while they went hunting. After failed attempts at moving his limbs, Arthur worried that the strike to his head had paralyzed him.

Slowly, his hearing cleared. What sounded like birds chirping seemed closer. He could just barely detect the wind moving through the trees. It all sounded contained, as if he was listening from within a small room. His eyes still refused to open and his arms and legs couldn't move.

Suddenly, everything snapped into focus and his eyes flew open. He was lying on his side in a very dark room, where he could see only the faint outlines of the objects surrounding him. His hands were stuck behind him, and it took him several moments to realize they, along with his ankles, were bound together with thick rope. A foul-tasting rag gagged him, keeping him from making noise. Arthur tried to sit up, but was immediately forced back down by the pain in his shoulder. He groaned through the gag as he slowly put his head back down on the wooden floorboards.

His shoulder had stopped bleeding, and the sharp pain from before had turned into a dull throbbing. The bullet was gone, but he had no way to tell how it could have been taken out. The wound was still open and surrounded by a thick crust of dried blood. Without stitches or a bandage, it had little chance of healing properly, not to mention the possibility of gangrene setting in.

Through his daze, he remembered his mother warning him about an outlaw who had recently made a name for himself. He was first seen in Cheyenne committing less serious crimes, like stealing valuables from stores. However, as the months went by, his misdemeanors transitioned to felonies as he began picking off livestock. Before long, he turned to murder, but he moved too fast for the law to catch up with him. No one knew his true identity, so they started calling him "Dust Devil" for targeting those weaker than him. Most of his victims disappeared without a trace, and their bodies would be found days later, abandoned in the woods and branded with a "D" on their left cheeks.

Arthur felt his stomach sink at the thought. What if he had been captured by Dust Devil? He was unarmed, bound and gagged, and had no idea where he was. The outlaw had already killed a few women and children, and Arthur did not want to become his first male victim.

The best bet he had was to try escape now, while the bandit was gone. He prayed that it was not Dust Devil and merely a thief, while he worked to get the binds off his hands. That way, he could negotiate a trade or something and leave mostly unharmed.

As he wriggled his hands out of the ropes, his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he found that the objects in the room were wooden crates and randomly assorted furniture. He must be in a storage shed.

Lying on his side was not the best position to free his hands, so after bracing himself for the pain, he attempted to roll onto his stomach. However, he was jolted to a stop when he ran into something hard. Several things came crashing down around him, creating a cacophony. Something made of glass shattered close to his feet, and several of the broken pieces hit him in the face.

_Shit_, Arthur thought, quickly glancing around, not that it did him any good. Everyone within 50 miles probably heard that. After a few silent moments and deciding he was still reasonably safe, he tried reaching for one of the shards of glass. It could make taking the ropes off easier.

However, a few seconds later, he heard footsteps from outside walking towards the storage cabin. Arthur froze, hardly daring to breathe. There went his escape plan.

Arthur tried to calm his now panicked heartbeat, convincing himself that it could be anyone, perhaps even a savior. But deep down, he knew better than to hope someone would just stumble upon him, assuming he was in the middle of nowhere.

Then a door on the far side of the room creaked opened, revealing a tall shadowed figure. For several seconds, all Arthur could hear was the wind and the birds; the mystery person was completely silent.

"You're awake," came a young voice. Arthur felt his mouth go dry.

Before Arthur could go into a full-blown panic, his captor strode towards him and slipped his arms underneath Arthur's, roughly picking him up off the floor. Arthur cried out in pain when he jostled his shoulder. Biting back whimpers, Arthur was shoved into an uncomfortable chair. He squinted up at his assailant, who still wore the bandana and hat from earlier in the day. Or from the day before. Who knows how long he was out? The only things Arthur could see were his blue-grey eyes and traces of flaxen hair.

The kidnapper ripped the gag out of Arthur's mouth and seized a handful of his blood-spattered hair, yanking his head upwards. Arthur's breath hitched when his neck bent at a painful angle.

"Where are they?" the attacker demanded.

Arthur stared incredulously at the man – no, boy. His voice and his eyes were too young to be any older than twenty. "I beg your pardon," Arthur croaked.

The outlaw pushed Arthur's head back harshly, so that his neck rammed into the top of the chair. He yelped when pain shot up into his skull.

"I'll ask you one more time," he hissed, holding Arthur's head down. "_Where are they?_"

Arthur had trouble breathing, thanks to his agonizingly positioned neck. "Who the hell are you talking about?" he wheezed.

Arthur observed the boy scan his face for who knows what, grasping Arthur's hair tighter by the second. After several silent moments, the criminal let go of him and walked a few steps away, turning his back. Coughing forcefully, Arthur gasped for air, letting his head lull forward. His throat felt as if it were full of sand.

The criminal reached for something in his belt as he sauntered away, and gradually faced him again. He pulled out a Colt revolver and lightly dragged his fingers over the rusted barrel, gazing at the weapon with a nonchalant expression. Arthur swallowed dryly when his attacker glanced back up at him.

"Have you ever read 'The Fatalist' by Mikhail Lermontov?"

Arthur searched his face and eventually shook his head. He opted to stay quiet lest he somehow provoke this maniac.

"Well, it's one of my favorite stories: a man's friend inserts a single bullet into a revolver, aims the gun at his own head, and shoots, hoping the chamber is empty," he explained. Arthur disliked his condescending tone. "You and your gang liked to play something similar with your innocent captives," the outlaw strolled towards him again and Arthur cringed away, "so I thought I should return the favor."

_Gang_, Arthur thought to himself? Before he could gather his thoughts, something cold jammed into the underside of his jaw, forcing his head back once more. Arthur bit his lip, attempting to ignore the pain. Upon realizing it was the gun digging into his throat, he froze. He slowly brought his shocked gaze to the outlaw's eyes, which were filled with silent rage.

"But," he began, "I'm going to change it up a bit."

Arthur waited for the explanation, while trying to keep his breathing in check. The boy's expression never changed.

"Every time you don't answer my question, I'll pull the trigger." He spun the cylinder like he was winding up a toy. "You could live, or you could die. It's up to you."

Arthur fought the urge to scowl. If this boy wanted information that desperately, there was no way he was going to kill him. But Arthur didn't want to take any chances. If he didn't do something now, he could end up dead in a few seconds. He had no idea what his assailant wanted or who he was talking about, so he was left with few options.

"For the love of all that is holy," Arthur murmured through gritted teeth, "I don't know what you're talking about. My name is Ar-"

When he felt the barrel of the pistol push deeper into his skin, Arthur stopped speaking and squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't care what your name is," the attacker snapped. "I know you're one of their scouts because I've seen you plenty of times. They have tons of them and they're all lookin' for me right now. You know things and if you don't tell me everything, I'll shoot your brains out."

Arthur's heart was pounding so loudly he was sure the other could hear it, and he was afraid it would somehow push the criminal to attack.

"So let's start over." The gun clicked loudly as the outlaw cocked it. Arthur kept his eyes shut tight, pretending it could provide some sort of relief. Suddenly he felt warm breath blow across his right ear, causing him to flinch. "Where are they?" the outlaw hissed.

It may have been a product of his still inebriated state, but Arthur was starting to feel more annoyed than terrified at this point. Clearly, this boy had the wrong person and Arthur had just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. _Go figure_, he thought sourly.

"Well?" the boy prodded.

The fear Arthur felt earlier was slowly turning into anger and frustration. His attacker had hardly let him speak once and yet he demanded Arthur to tell him everything, whatever that meant. Also, he interrupted an evening that was otherwise perfectly peaceful. Who knows what time of day it was now? Hours could have been wasted lying in the dark.

Arthur glared at the outlaw. "If you had let me speak in complete sentences," he growled, "you would have learned that I am not who you're looking for. I'm a rancher from Deer Lodge for God's sake!"

The boy was quiet afterwards. Arthur expected him to kill him right then and there, but the characteristic click of the trigger never came. The birds chirping outside and Arthur's irregular breathing were the only things filling the otherwise quiet room. The two of them held their positions for several tense seconds, the anger in the criminal's eyes slowly transforming into confusion. To Arthur's astonishment, he pulled the pistol away from Arthur's throat, looking up and down his face.

The criminal reached for Arthur's neck and pressed two fingers a few inches below the corner of his jaw. While Arthur gaped at him, he brought his fingers down slowly, as if he was looking for something. Clearly unsatisfied with his search, the criminal quickly walked behind Arthur, kneeled, and took his right wrist. He pushed Arthur's sleeve up past his elbows, and the two fingers reappeared just below his palms, traveling all the way up his forearm. Silence settled into Arthur's ears like cotton balls.

The floorboards creaked as the bandit rose from the floor. He dropped Arthur's arm, which hit the chair and ended up shifting his pounding shoulder; he groaned inwardly as the pain sharply revived itself. The outlaw circled Arthur like a hawk, but instead of calculating when to strike, he merely observed the prey; maybe he wouldn't strike at all. Stopping in front of him, he set the pistol on the floor and leaned in close, taking Arthur's face in his hands. Arthur held his breath as the outlaw studied his face once more. At such close quarters, Arthur spotted what seemed like scars poking out of the top of the bandana, stretching across the boy's left cheekbone and temple.

Finally, the criminal stepped back, pulling his hands away. Any remaining trace of resentment in his face had been replaced with bewilderment, which left Arthur just as confused.

Before anything could be said, the young outlaw turned and walked hurriedly out the door, leaving Arthur alone in the dark once again.

* * *

A long time passed before Arthur so much as moved. All feeling in his hands had disappeared thanks to the rope tightly binding his wrists. His legs were going numb due to the uncomfortable chair. Gout crossed his mind, which didn't help his already panicked state. As the sunlight coming through the window shifted across the room, Arthur's heart and thoughts raced. The more he thought about the outlaw's behavior, the more none of it made sense. Why would he threaten Arthur's life, only to scurry away without a word?

_Well, there's no use just sitting here anymore_, Arthur thought. At this point he had nothing to lose and wondered if attempting to escape again would be worth it. The criminal had been gone for some time now, and he supposed he would not return for a time yet. He peered at the glass shards scattered around the room and thought of reaching for them once more to take the ropes off. If he didn't soon, he feared he would lose the use of his hands.

After struggling to get off the chair and onto the floor without smashing his knees into the glass, he found the sharpest piece and slowly began sawing the ropes off his ankles. It was an arduous and rather awkward process since his hands were tied behind him and he cut himself several times on accident.

Finally, his ankles came free with a sigh of relief, and he quickly worked on his wrists. The rope burns would take a long while to heal, but at the moment, he was just happy to move his limbs again. He carefully stretched his arms to avoid injuring his shoulder further, and gradually came to a standing position.

A window on the west side of the room was broken and wide open. _This is too easy_, he thought suspiciously, but still opting to sneak out of the cabin that way. Making sure to avoid stepping on any glass or creaky floorboards, he inched towards the window.

Climbing out was no easy task, since the sharp broken edges poked at his skin and ripped more than a few parts of his clothes. The ground was also much further away than he initially thought; the cabin was built on a hill, apparently. _There's no way I can land softly here_, Arthur worried. There was no grass beneath him, just hard-packed and icy dirt.

After glancing through the cabin once more, Arthur decided this was the best way out. He braced himself for the landing and pushed himself out.

He landed feet first on the ground. Unfortunately, his feet slipped on the icy dirt. His back smacked onto the ground and his shoulder exploded with pain again. The impact knocked the wind out of him, leaving him piteously wheezing for breath. It took Arthur several minutes of lying on the ground, grinding his teeth, for him to sit up again. Thankfully, his head hadn't hit the ground, for he wasn't sure it could take another blow so soon.

After gathering his wits once more, he slowly came to a standing position. He wiped off the dirt on his clothes and tried to decide which direction to head. He had no clue where exactly he was, and unfortunately Montana was mostly open space. Although the sun was shining brightly, it was much colder outside than inside the shed. The newly formed tears in his leather jacket made it hard to stay warm, and who knew how much walking he had to do. Based on the position of the sun, he decided he was facing south and opted to follow that direction. He should find some place with other humans eventually.

At that moment her heard a faint snorting some ways off. He whipped around, patting his belt once more for his revolver, which unsurprisingly wasn't there. However, after Arthur realized what he was seeing, he sighed with relief.

Miro stood before him several feet away, tied to a pine tree. She seemed restless and anxious, her eyes quickly darting around. Her ears lay flat and her tail flicked around. Arthur walked to her, glad to see something familiar, and when he came into her line of sight, she visibly relaxed.

He approached her slowly, in case she was on edge and gently patted her nose. Miro leaned into the touch, letting him know she was welcoming him. After giving her a decent amount of affection, he scoured her for any injuries or damage. Nothing seemed to be out of place and it dawned on him that he could ride away at this moment. Miro's saddle and reins were gone, but he was skilled enough to ride without them.

"Miro, you are brilliant," he whispered for no particular reason, while quickly untying her from the tree. He pondered how exactly he was going to get on top of the horse and decided he would have to jump. Arthur placed his hands on Miro's back, which came up to about his shoulders, and braced himself to jump high enough to be able to lie across her back.

Just as he was about to leap upwards, something crashed into his side at full speed.

Arthur felt the air escape from his lungs as he smashed into the ground. He skidded a few inches, and stopped, for something extremely heavy weighed him down. This time his head did hit the ground, leaving him momentarily dazed.

Looking upwards, Arthur realized the outlaw had full-on tackled him to the ground. _Where had he come from,_ Arthur frantically asked himself? Panicking, Arthur tried to punch the other in the throat. The outlaw grabbed his wrist mid-punch and countered, hitting Arthur hard in the cheekbone. Pain burst in his face and for a short moment, he couldn't think.

The attacker took both his wrists and started to stand up, as if Arthur had already admitted defeat.

"Oh, no, you don't," Arthur hissed under his breath.

When the criminal wasn't paying attention, Arthur swung his leg up and kicked him hard in the gut. His captor yelped and fell backwards, releasing his wrists. Arthur quickly took the opportunity to scramble to his feet and run towards a panicked Miro. He did not get very far, as the outlaw grabbed one of ankles and tripped him. Falling onto his chest, he yelled in frustration as the outlaw tried to pin him once more. Rolling out of the way at the last second, the criminal landed on cold hard ground instead.

Arthur clambered towards the dazed criminal and leaped into his torso. He squeezed his attacker's neck, hoping to knock him out. But he flailed underneath him, grunting and yelling obscenities at Arthur. Before Arthur knew what was happening, the outlaw threw his body weight to the side and flung Arthur to the ground.

With the outlaw on top once more, Arthur was left with few options. The outlaw raised a fist again, and Arthur, bringing his hands to shield his face and turning away, had an idea. He shoved the attacker off his body, pushing him sideways onto the ground. He cried out when he hit the ground, but did not let go of Arthur, causing them to roll. The incline of the hill suddenly steepened and the two to pick up speed. They became a thrashing jumble of punching arms and kicking legs as they plunged down the hillside.

At the bottom of the hill, they came to a screeching, dusty halt. Arthur ended up straddling him. Determined to win, Arthur yelled out, ripping the hat and bandana off his attacker. If he was going to punch this man, he was going to feel the full force of his strength.

Arthur reeled backwards to throw more power into the hit. He made eye contact with his attacker, who was gritting his teeth trying to move Arthur off his arms.

And Arthur stopped.

Dark blonde hair dirtied by icy soil fell out of the hat and squinting blue-grey eyes stared up at him, filled with rage. Scars covered his entire left cheek, from the jawline all the way to the temple. They did not seem like scars from lacerations. He had a straight nose sprinkled with a few freckles and prominent cheekbones.

He had seen this face before.

Arthur did not realize how long he had gawked at the boy until he snapped, "If you're going to hit me, just do it." He writhed beneath Arthur's legs, trying to escape.

He felt his chest tighten upon hearing his voice without the bandana. Lowering his arm, he intently observed the outlaw's face, hardly believing what he was seeing. _This cannot be real_, he thought to himself.

Gently, Arthur swept the hair from the boy's forehead, causing him to stop squirming and to return Arthur's bewildered gaze. After several silent moments, where the only thing to be heard was the wind through the grass and the occasional bird chirping, Arthur whispered breathlessly,

"Alfred?"


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The sky was dark and filled with stars. Just above the west horizon, the sky faded to purple and then light blue, the sun having set a few minutes ago. Silhouettes of mountains and small trees lined the distant horizon and a passing herd of bison in the distance could be heard, hooves pounding into the soil. The temperature had dropped drastically and new frost was starting to form on the grass and dirt.

Arthur sat in front of a fire that Alfred had created inside an abandoned barn not too far from the storage shed. It crackled and sparked, spreading light throughout the place, even to the decaying rafters high above. He sat across from Alfred, who was attempting to polish the rusty barrel of the revolver with a torn cloth. His face was downturned, pointedly not looking at Arthur. Both of them had donned wool blankets to keep warm in the freezing early spring night.

Arthur finally broke the silence with an almost strangled sounding, "Where have you been, Alfred?"

Alfred looked up and met Arthur's gaze. He could see pain in his eyes and pursed lips. He opened and closed his mouth several times before giving up and looking back down at his revolver. He did not continue to polish it.

"It's been so long since anyone's called me Alfred." He shook his head and smiled, though there was no happiness behind it. "I almost forgot."

He did not answer Arthur's question, and Arthur needed information from him. This was his childhood best friend, still alive after nine years thinking he was long dead. How could he sit there and ignore him? Did he not realize the pain he had gone through?

"How did you survive?" Arthur asked, almost pleading. "Why didn't you come back?"

Alfred sighed, but did not look back up.

Much earlier that day, after their intense brawl and Arthur's revelation, the fighting ceased immediately. Alfred stopped moving completely and gaped at Arthur upon hearing his own name. Arthur slowly climbed off of him and Alfred sat up, both keeping eye contact.

"How do you know my name?" Alfred stuttered, incredulous and suspicious. He backed away as Arthur crept forward, reaching for his face again.

"My God," Arthur said, feeling tears prickle the backs of his eyes. "Is it really you?"

Alfred slapped his hand away. "What are you doing?"

Arthur knew with every fiber of his being that this young man in front of him, with scars on his face and dirt covering his body, chaps in tatters, was Alfred. Although years had passed, there were features that still looked the same, like his hair and his eyes and his facial structure. He was just more mature looking with a deeper voice.

"Who are you?" Alfred demanded, still scooting backwards with defensive body language.

Arthur almost could not continue. This did not feel real. "Alfred, it's me," he said quietly, "Arthur."

At that, Alfred stopped moving, and his eyebrows knitted together. As this name sank in, his eyes widened and he turned to face Arthur more fully. After a few tense seconds, he peeped, "Arthur? Arthur Kirkland?"

Arthur smiled and he couldn't help a single tear. "Yes, it's me!"

"Man alive," Alfred murmured, getting up onto his feet. They stood up together without breaking eye contact and Alfred approached Arthur, looking him up and down. Finally, Alfred took Arthur's face in his hands and exclaimed, "It really is you!"

Arthur let out a relieved laugh, realizing never in his life had he been more amazed than this moment. "I hardly recognize you!" Alfred cried. "Your hair is darker. And your accent's been diluted!"

"I suppose that's what happens when you're surrounded by Yanks for more than half your life," Arthur said, wiping at his eyes.

"But still as dry as ever," Alfred laughed, his own eyes watering. "I've never been so happy to see someone in my life!"

Then they grabbed each other in a tight embrace, and stayed that way for several seconds. Arthur still felt as if he were in a dream. He thought he would never see Alfred again.

After they pulled away to take each other in, Arthur said, "I thought you were dead! What have you been doing?"

And at that question, Alfred fell silent, and his mood changed completely. And that brought them all the way to the fire now. Alfred stayed quiet the entire day, as if in a trance, reminded of something. Arthur grew increasingly concerned for him until he couldn't bear it any longer. He needed to talk to him. He needed to know what happened.

"Alfred," Arthur began quietly, recapturing Alfred's attention. He had no clue how to broach the subject, but there was a lot of explaining to do about his new reputation. "You've…You've done some questionable things lately." Alfred's jaw clenched at the mention. Arthur took a deep breath and continued. "You've killed people?"

Alfred stood up suddenly, dropping the gun. Arthur flinched. "I haven't killed anyone." He glared at Arthur. But as he stood, his glare softened until it became a look of sorrow. "Not a single person."

Arthur's forehead crinkled as he frowned. "How can that be? Alfred, do you know what people have been saying about you?" Alfred stared incredulously at Arthur as he spoke. "No one knows exactly who it is, but the sketches on many of the wanted posters bear a rather striking resemblance to you, now that I think about it."

Alfred ran his hands through his hair. "Which ones? The Dust Devil posters?"

Arthur stayed quiet until Alfred met his gaze. He slowly nodded, and Alfred cursed under his breath. He sat back down, close to the fire. When he removed his hands from his face, he appeared even more tired than before.

"It wasn't you?" Arthur whispered, not wanting to startle him.

Alfred shot a nasty look at him. "Of course, not. Why would I kill innocent women and children?"

"I don't know, Alfred," Arthur stammered. "You've been gone for nine years. A lot can change in such a long period of time."

"You have no idea," Alfred replied softly, trailing off.

Standing up, Arthur adjusted his blanket and walked around the fire to where Alfred sat. He did not touch him, but he hoped the proximity would hint to Alfred that he could trust him.

"What happened, Alfred?" he asked gently, sitting beside him.

Again, silence fell between them, but Arthur was patient. Alfred turned to face him, and eventually made eye contact. Arthur nodded to him, signaling to him it was safe to continue, that he would listen. He opened his mouth to tell him something before he abruptly stopped, staring at Arthur's wounded shoulder, which was poking out of the blanket.

He shot up. "Arthur, your shoulder!" he cried. He raced to the other side of the barn, where a large pack lay. Arthur cursed under his breath, so close to finally hearing an explanation. "I almost forgot!" Alfred said, rifling through the bag. His hand finally found what it was looking for, and Alfred raced back to the fire with a decent sized metal box. He set it on the ground and opened it, revealing it to be a first aid kit.

"Alfred, at this point, I don't know what we can do about this."

Alfred shushed him, pulling some supplies out: scalpels, swabs, scissors, probes, and forceps among other things. And to Arthur's horror: suturing needles.

He felt all the blood drain from his face. "You don't plan to stitch this up, do you?"

"Of course I do," Alfred replied, matter of fact. "If we don't, who knows what kind of infection could set in?"

"And what qualifies you to do this?" Arthur asked feebly. He could feel his legs begin to shake.

"Don't worry. I've done this more times than I can count." Alfred held the scalpel to the side of the flame to sterilize it. When he saw Arthur's unconvinced, troubled expression, he added, "Successfully."

He set the scalpel aside on a clean cloth and reached for the swabs. "Could you take your shirt off for me?" Alfred asked.

The question took Arthur by surprise. "It's a bit cold for that, don't you think?" he replied shortly, unconsciously pulling his jacket closer around him.

After shrugging and pulling fabric away from Arthur's shoulder, he paused and said, "This is going to hurt. Don't bite your lips."

_Oh, Lord_, Arthur thought, closing his eyes and turning away. His shoulder started burning a few seconds later, and it took all of his will power not to cry out. He gripped the wool blanket, letting a hitched breath hiss through his teeth. Once Alfred finished cleansing the wound with saline solution, he gently wiped away other debris. Arthur felt his eyes watering from the pain.

"You're doing just fine," Alfred reassured Arthur, sensing how tense his body had become. Next, he swabbed the wound with another, cool substance. Arthur expected this to sting even more, but soon the sharp burning pain began to ebb and eventually dulled to a mere throb.

Letting his eyes flutter open, Arthur let his back relax, pointedly not looking at his shoulder. "Whatever you just put on my shoulder did wonders," he half-laughed and half-choked.

"Perfect," Alfred replied. Arthur dared not look, but out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Alfred deftly handling something in his hands, like he was threading the needle. Taking deep breaths, he tried to steady his heart beat and decided it was best not to tell Alfred of his fear of needles. _You've already been shot, Arthur_, he told himself. _You can deal with a needle and some thread. _

Noticing Arthur's heavy breathing, Alfred comforted him with, "Don't worry. As soon as I finish this, you'll be right as rain."

Holding his breath, Arthur tried to ignore the pressure he felt on the laceration as Alfred began closing it. All of the possible ways this could go wrong crossed his mind then. He hoped to God that Alfred knew what he was doing. _I suppose I have nothing to lose at this point_, he thought dismally.

As Alfred began to close the wound, Arthur asked, "Where did you learn to do this?"

Alfred did not respond at first. He continued to work for several seconds. "It was a necessity of sorts," he sighed in time, intently watching his hands. "I had to learn, otherwise there were some nasty consequences. And I don't mean medically."

"What do you mean then?" Arthur inquired, focusing on his hand gripping the blanket.

Alfred shook his head. "It's a long story."

"Well," Arthur answered, "I've got no place to be. Go on ahead."

Taking a deep breath, Alfred paused the suturing, looked to the ground and then to the fire, thinking of the best way to explain the last nine years of his life. Scratching his head, he began to tell his story.

"You remember the fire?" Alfred asked quietly.

Arthur eyed Alfred's face for any kind of expression, but only the tiredness remained. "I don't think I could ever forget it," Arthur responded resolutely.

Alfred shuffled around and started sewing again. "I was with Mama as our house was burning down. We were trapped, but she knew I would fit out the window in the drawing room. So she lifted me through and told me to run." The drawing room windows were located at the back of the house, facing the wilderness outside of Bozeman and away from the townspeople fighting the fires. "I landed on a smoldering pile of wood, which is where this came from," Alfred continued, gesturing towards the scars on his face, "And I started running. I didn't pay attention to where I was going. I just panicked and ran."

A coyote howled in the distance and the fire crackled as the logs fell apart. Arthur noticed that Alfred's hands were shaking. He tried not to think about what could happen to his shoulder if this went wrong. Maybe asking him about his past at this time wasn't one of his brightest ideas.

"I had no idea where I was when I stopped. It was dark and I couldn't see anything. I realized I'd left my family behind in the fire and I had no way to return to them. I was out there for several hours on my own, when I heard snuffling and footsteps."

Arthur jumped when he felt a sudden stab of pain. Alfred had found more debris and was clearing it out. "Turns out a few coyotes had found me, and what better snack than a helpless eight year old?"

Alfred returned to suturing, putting the scalpel down and using the forceps to grab the needle. Arthur braced himself for the next part of the story. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear about young Alfred getting torn to shreds.

However, this wasn't the worst part. "Before they could actually pounce on me, thankfully, a huge group of riders surrounded me and scared them away." Arthur could hear Alfred's voice break when he said riders. "But of course, they weren't there to help. I stood up, sobbing my eyes out and ready to thank them, when they grabbed me from behind, tied me up, and folded me over the back of a horse. They blindfolded me, too, just for good measure." Alfred's voice gradually grew quieter as he spoke. Arthur had a feeling he was holding back tears.

"They took me miles away, and for nine years I was treated like shit," Alfred spat. The shaking in his hands grew more intense. "They practically made me their slave. They called me horrible names. They found any reason they could to beat me into the ground: I was too slow or too fast, they were bored, they wanted to see my reaction."

Alfred suddenly let out a breath and stopped sewing again. Arthur turned to look at him, avoiding glancing at his shoulder, and saw the fury in Alfred's eyes. He seemed to radiate pain. Arthur wanted to reach out to him, but feared right now would not be the best time.

Silence fell between them. A single tear fell from Alfred's eye, and Arthur could only look on, partially due to his half sutured shoulder. "They had some kind of vendetta against my family. They taunted me with the little things I managed to take with me when I escaped, like the handkerchief Mama embroidered for me. They took it all away so I had nothing to keep me grounded."

The fire suddenly crackled loudly, causing both of them to jump. When Alfred did not continue, Arthur asked gently, "Who is 'they,' Alfred?"

Alfred did not meet his gaze. "I only know him as Nelson Crawford. He and his entire gang. There were tens of them." Arthur looked down at the ground in front of them. He had heard the name before, and nothing good ever accompanied it. "I only have a few more stitches," Alfred murmured.

Arthur felt some tugging as Alfred continued to close his wound. "A few months ago, I finally had enough courage to try and leave. One night, when the ones who watched me were sleeping, I slit their throats and ran." Arthur felt his stomach tighten at those words. Having to kill people at such a young age did not sit well with him. There were times when tensions with neighbors along the borders of his ranch had risen, but never to the point of violence. Although in Alfred's case, he felt it was more than justified. "And because I killed his men, Crawford framed me for the murder of all those people you've heard about."

"And started calling you Dust Devil," Arthur whispered. "Nasty business."

"No kidding," Alfred laughed humorlessly.

"They must have known no one would recognize you after all these years," Arthur pointed out, shifting on the log. His legs were starting to hurt. "Why frame you for murder?"

Alfred did not answer for a few seconds, paying close attention to his medical procedure. He scoffed, "Revenge. To get their slave back. To punish me properly. There are plenty of reasons."

Arthur mulled this over. That seemed like a lot of trouble just for a young boy they captured years ago. _Perhaps he knows too much about them_, he decided.

Before he knew it, he heard the snip of scissors and some final tugs at one end of the gunshot wound. He opened his eyes to see Alfred dabbing some final touches of saline solution. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Alfred asked, putting his supplies back in the metal container. "Told you I knew how to do this."

Arthur finally mustered enough courage to look down at the wound, and found it completely clean of crusted blood and dirt. Instead of a gaping wound, there was only a thin line of cut skin with neat, uniform stitches holding it together. He gawked at it, amazed Alfred had such skill. "It's the least I can do since I'm the one who gave that to you," Alfred stated with a grimace. Tempted to touch it, he hovered his hand over the wound. He hoped it wouldn't begin to hurt too much later.

Arthur watched Alfred walk over to the other end of the barn and return the supplies to his pack. His shadow danced across the dilapidated walls of the barn as he moved. Arthur still had so many questions.

"They made you learn how to do this?"

Nodding, he walked back over to sit by the fire. "Anything they needed to have done, I was forced to do. Whether it was cooking, stealing, or suturing."

"Well on the bright side, you learned something useful," Arthur supposed. "Alfred," he began. Alfred met his gaze for the first time in several minutes. "Earlier, you were demanding to know where they were." The fire spat out several sparks as another log broke in half. He hoped nothing would catch on fire in this godforsaken barn. "You're not seeking them out, are you?"

"Of course, I am," Alfred replied, matter-of-fact. When he saw Arthur's bewildered face, he continued with, "They have something of mine."

"Something worth risking your freedom and quite possibly your life?" Arthur grabbed Alfred's arm, as if that would make him see some sense. He winced as he moved his newly stitched shoulder.

Alfred frowned at him, pulling away. "They practically took my life from me already." He leaned over and added a new log to the fire. "I don't have much else to lose."

Arthur gaped at him. "You have everything to lose!" he cried. "After all this time, you're here in front of me." He gripped Alfred's hand, which was cold and chapped. He could still hardly believe that this person, who was once his childhood best friend, had unexpectedly appeared back into his life. "I thought you were dead. I thought that the next time I'd see you was after my own passing." Again, Alfred was refusing to meet his eyes, so he gripped harder. "I know that you have gone through your own ordeals, but it was awful losing you so suddenly."

Arthur felt tears prick the backs of his eyes, which he internally scolded himself for. He attempted to keep his voice steady. "I didn't fully understand just how permanent death was at the time, so coming to terms with that was the most difficult thing I have ever done." Hearing the grief in his voice, Alfred lifted his head with an expression of concern on his face. "You were my only friend in that tiny town called Bozeman," he laughed humorlessly.

The pressure around Arthur's hand increased as he realized Alfred was squeezing his in return. "This is exactly why I need to go back," Alfred whispered, determined. "They destroyed all of that and they need to know that they can never do it again. To anyone." Alfred stood up and began taking more blankets out of his pack.

Arthur shook his head. "Leave it to the authorities, Alfred. They are undoubtedly more prepared to take care of these men than either you or I am." He kneeled next to him to smooth the blankets out on the ground. The last bit of sunlight had finally disappeared and the Montana wilderness had gone quiet. Only the occasional cricket sounded its call. Sleep might aid in the effectiveness of Arthur's argument and convince Alfred to change his mind.

"Who would be better prepared to face them than someone who has spent years with them?" Alfred pointed out. "And usually someone with his face plastered across wanted posters _avoids_ the authorities." After deciding the makeshift beds would do for the night, Alfred began putting out their fire.

"Alfred," Arthur warned.

Ignoring his tone, Alfred merely said, "We should get some sleep for tomorrow."

Hours later, the only light came from the stars and Arthur could just barely make out the outline of Alfred's sleeping face. As he lay between his wool blankets, he could still feel the faint heat from the smoldering embers of their fire. Straw wasn't exactly the most comfortable thing to lie on, certainly not compared to his own bed, but he supposed it was better than sleeping out in the open. Alfred had fallen asleep long ago, no doubt tired from the past several eventful weeks of his life, and in this state Arthur could see traces of the child his friend had once been. He had the strange protective urge to softly run his knuckles down Alfred's cheeks.

Frustration still lingered within him from that evening's argument. Alfred's determination to go back frightened him. He had only just found him and the thought of returning to all that chaos and misery was totally beyond him. Alfred could disappear for another nine years, possibly forever in the worst case scenario, and the second time around would be exponentially more painful than the first. If he couldn't dissuade him from going, the next best thing would be to go with him. At least that way, they'd both be in trouble. It could also be a much welcome holiday from the dull life of Deer Lodge. As his eyelids became heavier and heavier, the last few thoughts that occupied his mind included keeping Alfred away from dangers.

And as he drifted off to sleep, he slipped into dreams of his childhood, filled with innocence and naïveté.

* * *

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Alfred called to Arthur from behind Miro, lifting his head above her back so he could see Arthur. He hunched over again as he attempted to cinch the saddle around the horse. "Damn your stubbornness," he huffed, lightly hitting Miro's stomach. Not wanting the saddle to be snug, she had pushed her belly way out to make the billet strap looser.

The sun was creeping up over the mountains behind them, sending gentle golden tendrils of light across the landscape. A cloudless morning, the wildlife of an untamed Montana was slowly awakening, filling the quiet countryside with the sounds of the wide open West. To say the least, it was quite the sight to see.

Arthur laughed as he made sure Alfred's bag held everything that he had with him. He mentally checked through the wool blankets, tin mugs, first aid kit, coffee grounds, as well as several other essentials. "Just give her a few seconds," he smiled, walking towards the two of them. "She can't hold her breath forever."

Despite the early spring chill, the sun was warm on Arthur's head. The icy grass crunched beneath his feet as he closed the distance between himself and Miro and Alfred. Even on a clear day like this, the temperatures would stay low, making him more than glad that he had his leather jacket with him.

As he approached them, Arthur asked, "You do recognize her, don't you?" He walked around Miro and stood next to a struggling Alfred, affectionately patting her lower back.

"This here beauty?" he grunted. "Can't say I do." He carefully watched Miro's stomach, hoping she would give in soon. Once she did, there would be a short amount of time to act. "Although I must say, you have a fine taste in Mustangs, Arthur, and finding her must have been a real challenge."

"And I must say that you have a poor memory, indeed." Alfred gave him a confused glance, still eyeing the cinch. "You did all the finding for me."

Alfred's brows knitted together as he processed what he was just told. He looked Miro up and down, and then finally looked to Arthur with wide eyes. "You don't mean…" His mouth gaped as he stood up right.

Arthur couldn't help but smile as realization dawned on his face. "I do mean," he said, grinning.

"Miro!" Alfred whispered. He quickly walked towards her face and gently stroked the bridge of her nose. "Well, ain't this a family reunion!" While she was still warming up to him, Miro welcomed the affection. "How did you get a hold of her? I would have thought she'd be the first to go."

Arthur watched as Alfred lovingly pet his former mare. "It wasn't easy, I'll tell you that. But my family and I had some leverage." He could only imagine how Alfred must feel seeing her for the first in years, but he hoped that it was more a joyous reunification rather than a painful reminder.

After settling down, Alfred returned to the billet strap and pulled tightly, catching Miro unawares. He took a turn around Miro to make sure everything was in order and grabbed the bag from Arthur and attached it to the saddle. He then turned to Arthur, patting Miro and smile slowly fading. "You know," he began, "If you come with me, you'll be on my wanted posters faster than you can say Jack Robinson." He shifted from foot to foot. "You could lose your ranch."

Miro shuffled around a bit before Arthur answered, kicking up a small amount of dust. The wind quickly blew it away. "To hell with my ranch," he eventually answered, sweeping the hair out of his eyes. "I was sick of it anyway."

"You'll be an accomplice to alleged murder! Your reputation will be ruined!" Alfred floundered.

Growing irritated with him, Arthur bit back cuss words. Was he trying to send him home? From what it sounded like, he could use all the help he could get. "Look, Alfred," he said through his teeth, "I don't give a damn about any of that. Deer Lodge is the sleepiest town in the United States and I can't even remember how long I've wanted out. I mean, for God's sake," he laughed, "this is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me!" He grabbed Alfred's shoulder. "Let me help you."

"You don't know Crawford, Arthur, and I don't think you want to know him," Alfred cautioned, pulling away. He turned to face the other way, eyes looking downward as he said, "I just don't want to put you in harm's way."

Touched, Arthur felt his face warm. He hoped he wasn't blushing. He had misjudged Alfred's intentions. Even still, he could not help but feel as if Alfred was coddling him. He was almost twenty years old, in fact, and two years older than Alfred. He may not be very familiar with outlaws, but he could decently handle a revolver and a rifle. What else would he need to do?

"Alfred, please," he implored, "I can handle myself. Besides," Arthur pointed out with a smile, "if I do end up on your wanted posters, we'll just be like the unsuspecting heroes of those dime novels we used to read." He lightly elbowed him, trying to get him smile in return. "What do you say?"

Shaking his head, Alfred put his left foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over Miro's back, adjusting himself comfortably in her saddle. He took the reins in his hands and gently patted her neck to sooth her. "I guess there's no convincing you otherwise?" he said without looking at him.

As Alfred extended his hand to him from atop Miro, Arthur smirked and said, "Not at all." He followed Alfred and mounted Miro just behind him, feeling a little squished on the back of the saddle. "Lead on, cowboy," he said teasingly, pushing up the back of Alfred's hat so that it fell in front of his face.

Alfred sputtered, fumbling with the hat until it sat atop his head again, causing Arthur to laugh. Despite looking silly, Alfred managed to laugh with him. Although it had been but a day since the two reunited, they already were become comfortable with each other. Alfred squeezed Miro's sides as a signal to begin walking, and soon they left the ramshackle barn behind.


End file.
